


Bowling Alley Boyfriend

by Jessie Lucid (Lucidnancyboy)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: A love note to the music world, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Boy Band Steve Rogers, Casual Sex, Explicit Language, F/M, Gay Steve Rogers, I have no idea where this is going, M/M, Punk Bucky Barnes, Punk singer Bucky Barnes, Sexual Content, Stucky - Freeform, Switch Bucky Barnes, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, so I'll tag as I go, stucky au, switch steve rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 21:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Jessie%20Lucid
Summary: On one side of the table, you had a semi-famous, bleach-blond dude with horrible BO and a sweaty erection, aka the lead singer/bassist/songwriter/mouthpiece for Bowling Alley Boyfriend, aka Bucky Barnes, aka him.On the other side, you had a legitimately famous blond dude who looked like he’d just busted out 1,000 push-ups and eaten five entire chickens (seriously, the dude was built like a Mack Truck), who, Bucky suspected, would smell like sandalwood if you got close to his neck.Straight up, Bucky had absolutely no idea why Steve fucking Rogers, one-fifth of the most popular (and lamest) boy band on the entire planet, had just strolled into his shitty, punk rock meet and greet, but, damn, if he wasn't curious...Curious and horny.*My love note to the music industry, my musician friends, my years singing in a band, and music in general.





	Bowling Alley Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> This is going to be a fun little story that I work on when I need a break from editing my novel "The King of the Jocks: The King of the Misfits". I'm not sure how often I'm going to update, but I love punk Bucky, so it'll probably be hard to stay away for long. :)
> 
> Enjoy, Jessie 
> 
> Also, I listened to Dinosaur Pile-Up, Dirty Honey, I Prevail, and lots of classic punk while I was writing (if you wanna check out the vibe).

Pushing his way into the green room, Clint grabbed a bottle of Miller Lite out of the cooler and collapsed onto the beat-up couch. “Did you see how many people are lined up at the stage door tonight?” he asked, knowing damn well that Bucky’d come back here right after the encore and hadn’t seen shit. “Was there another radio contest I didn’t fuckin’ know about, ‘cause that shit that went down in Denver? It’s not happening again. No fucking way.”

Frank snorted, leaning across their disgruntled guitar player and grabbing a couple of magazines off the side table. “You’re such a little bitch, man. Those fans _ won _ the right to manhandle you, fair and square. You’re just being a bad sport, _ sport.” _

FYI, drummers were assholes. _ All _ of them. No lie, they came straight out of the womb bashing shit around with baby big-dick energy, and it just got worse as they leveled up. Ask anyone in any band, _ all around the world, _ and they’ll confirm it’s a genetic thing. Bucky’d bet his Fender fretless Jaco Pastorious bass on it _...and _ his non-existent car. 

Chuckling, he collapsed onto the _ other _ beat-up couch on the opposite side of the room and hollered, “Yo, Damien. Throw me a towel.” 

Damien was their manager (a gift from the record company), and the dude was always in a hurry, running around with an ever-present walkie-talkie, a Bluetooth headset, and a _ second _ phone that was in front of his face at all times. That’s why he _ did not _throw Bucky a towel before he jogged out the door to do whatever the fuck he did.

But Frank’s drum tech Robbie answered Bucky’s call, lobbing a white towel over everyone’s head (that Bucky caught without looking). Drum techs, you see, were good for a hell of a lot more than tuning snare drums, including (but not limited to): scoring weed, scoring coke, scoring E, buying them beer at random gas stations in the middle of nowhere, and slathering sunscreen all over the three of them before outside gigs (it was in his job description).

Mopping up the sweat around his neck, Bucky glanced over at Clint and Frank, and, no shit, Clint was _ still _ whining about Denver. Now, to be clear, the entire concept of Denver’s alt-rock station’s ‘Hands on a Bowling Alley Boyfriend’ contest had been totally fucked up (yes, that was the name of their band, and, yes, it was cool as fuck). The rules: 1. Keep one hand on the guitar player from Bowling Alley Boyfriend at _ all _ times. 2. One five minute break every hour to eat, shit, or piss. 3. If, at any point, your hand breaks contact with the guitar player from Bowling Alley Boyfriend, you are immediately disqualified from the contest. 4. Last person standing wins a limited edition hollow-body guitar, valued at $499 and signed by the band (courtesy of Epiphone), a personal tour of the venue with singer/bassist Bucky Barnes before the show, and an all-access backstage pass. The problem? 89X Denver had started their stupid contest with 21 girls and four guys, none of whom had _ any _ intention of letting go…

_ Four _ hours later, they’d declared the whole debacle a 13-person tie because Clint had lost his shit and taken off down the street after a goth chick with bad breath had squeezed his ass for the 50th time.

“You shouldn’t bitch,” Bucky said, rubbing the towel through his hair to try and get his brand new blond spikes to stick up (purely with sweat and willpower). “Last time we were in L.A., not even 20 people bothered to come backstage at the Roxy gig, and most of those were our mooch friends trying to score free drinks.” 

As the words vomited out of his mouth, Bucky cringed, simultaneously wanting to duct tape his lips and punch himself in the nose. He’d had a _ great _ time at that show. The fucking best, actually. It had been a literal dream come true to play the fucking Roxy! And, making it even more memorable, Bucky had flip-fucked his buddy Jett in the cramped bathroom that night, staring at all the posters, flyers, and signatures of bands he’d worshiped since he was a skinny kid playing bass clarinet in the middle school band. The Ramones, Guns N’ Roses, Jane’s Addiction, Social Distortion, the fucking Sex Pistols_…Lou fucking Reed! _ The list went on and on...

Bucky sighed, then he sighed again. It didn’t seem possible that he’d been balls deep in Jett’s ass and staring at a picture of Slash less than a year ago. He quickly did some mental math. They’d played the Roxy right after Halloween, so that had only been, what? Eight months ago?

Fucking hell. It felt like five years. 

Leaning around the hipster dude, who’d been following them around with a big-ass camera all night, Bucky _attempted_ to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall, but the asshole did a little side shuffle and blocked his view. _Then,_ like that hadn’t been rude enough, he had the nerve to aim his lens at Bucky’s jacked-up hair and adjust his fucking zoom. Needless to say, Bucky wasn’t shy about flipping off the camera. 

And, yeah, the dickwad pressed the fucking button.

Whatever. Their PR person Nat could spin the picture as ‘rock and roll at its finest’. She was good at bullshit. 

“Can you move?” Bucky snapped. “I’m trying to look in the fucking mirror.” 

The bottom line was, short hair was cooler temperature-wise, but there were already hundreds of pictures circulating of him looking like a cross between a drunk cockatiel and Billy Idol. Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t like it, but it was a big fucking change from channeling Soundgarden era Chris Cornell for the past few years. Scowling at the camera, Bucky grabbed what was left of his hair and pulled. 

It was his own fucking fault. When you slam back a couple of shots before an _ outdoor _ gig in Phoenix (in June), then decided you’re too hot to live five songs in, what do you fucking expect? Ronnie the drum tech had _ helpfully _ grabbed Bucky a box cutter (after he’d asked for scissors), and he’d dramatically chopped off 15 inches of hair during Clint’s solo in ‘Heaven Fuck’. Over 5,000 people had witnessed Bucky’s impromptu haircut, and the internet had pretty much exploded, screaming about Bucky being the reincarnation of punk-rock irreverence with the accompanying videos and GIFs to prove it. But thetruth was, he’d been drunk and hot… Drunk and hot with a razor blade. 

Stretching his arm over the end of the couch, he scooped a can of Ballast Point out of the cooler and popped the top, chugging half of it in one go. 

There was a _ very _ fine line between punk rock and dumbass, and Bucky’d been teetering on that tightrope for the better part of six years. Lighting a can of hairspray on fire at their first ‘gig’ (in his garage) to rile up the ‘crowd’ with ‘pyrotechnics’? Punk rock or dumb? He glanced down at the ribbons of scar tissue intermingling with the tattoos on his left arm. Sure, the burns (and Bucky’s fight to recover the motion in his wrist) added some color to their origin story, but it didn’t make him any less stupid. You’d think he would’ve learned by now, considering that he wasn’t _ 14, _but he’d still let Clint dump a gallon of bleach onto his head at their next tour stop after Denver…which just so happened to be Vegas. 

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

Bucky chugged the other half of the beer and crushed the can. Nice slogan, but it doesn’t really apply to hair color, now does it? 

Scoffing, he launched the crumpled aluminum past the fucking hipster and nailed the trash can…which was next to the reporter…who Bucky’d _ totally _ forgotten about…

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, mother fucker. Fuck!

She was furiously scribbling shit down in her little notepad (old school), glancing at Clint and Frank through her cat-eyed rockabilly glasses…jotting shit down…looking again…jotting shit down. And when Bucky followed her gaze, it was easy to see why. 

Frank was intensely rolling a joint on top of an _ Alternative Press _ magazine, and Clint… Well, Clint was drooling like a dog at the mere _ scent _of weed and flicking his zippo dangerously close to the ends of his partially collapsed mohawk. He’d dyed the tips black after he’d turned Bucky into a cockatiel, so they, as he’d put it, ‘didn’t look like fucking twins in a German metal band’.

“Hey, dumbass,” Bucky said, ignoring Damien when he ran back into the room and started shouting into his fucking walk-in-talkie, “you probably shouldn’t do that in front of a fucking reporter…”

Clint snorted. “Yeah, _ Frank, _ especially since you’re rolling it on top of Bucky’s pretty face…”

Squinting at Frank’s lap, Bucky yelled, “Fucking, c’mon!” when he confirmed (for the millionth time) that Frank was a goddamn asshole.

Two months ago: May 2020. Bowling Alley Boyfriend had been featured on the cover of _ Alternative Press _ Magazine with the cover line ’Bringing the Punk Back to Pop’, which has been bullshit for _ so _ many reasons. First, because they’d put a picture on the cover where Bucky’s face was _ huge _ and Clint and Frank were standing in the background like extras, and second, because their band wasn’t bringing the punk back to pop! They were just getting people to pay attention to what had _ always _ been there. Punk had been pop since Dee Dee Ramone first shouted ‘one, two, three, four’ at the beginning of a two-minute song! 

Bucky grabbed another beer and cracked it open with one hand.

“Do you always roll joints on top of your lead singer?” the reporter asked, leaning against the wall and scribbling down more dirt. 

She wasn’t playing around with the whole rockabilly look. She had the swoopy hairstyle that required a hundred bobby pins, the glasses with thick, black frames, the bright red lipstick, the tattoos… If she were 20 years younger, Bucky might’ve been into her…but cougars weren’t his thing. 

“Yep,” Frank answered, licking the paper, “and sometimes, in a pinch, he lays down in the van so I can roll one up on his abs.”

Spitting out a mouthful of beer, Bucky snapped, “Don’t fucking write that!” then, after apologizing to Damien for spitting beer all over his pants, he added, “Please,” because the label had lectured him about his fucking attitude a million times. To quote Nat: ‘Even _ punks _should be fucking polite, so stop acting like a total prick and use your fucking manners’.

Ditching the beer on the side table, Bucky lowered his voice, tried to relax his shoulders, and adjusted his tone before he calmly said, _“Please…” _

When you get your first taste of real success, fucking it up is always in the back of your mind. And the label, Damien, their producer, their road manager, and Nat _ (especially Nat), _ had drilled it into Bucky’s head that ‘vague sexuality’ was cool in today’s climate, but coming out as bisexual right off the bat was career suicide, _ especially _ since they were crossing over into multiple markets country-wide. It was a fancy way of saying, ‘do your shit, but don’t declare your shit’. And tossing out the image of Bucky lounging around shirtless while his bandmates rolled joints on his stomach didn’t really go along with that middle-America mandate.

It didn’t matter that it was completely true…or that Frank had done it just yesterday…

“Why not?” she asked, clicking the end of her ballpoint pen. “Are you concerned about your image?”

“For fuck’s sake…” Pulling his sweaty tank top over his head, Bucky threw it on the floor, hoping that his tattoos and piercings would remind her what his fucking image was supposed to be. A few months back, he’d finished his left sleeve when they’d rolled through Vancouver because Nat has known a guy who specialized in working with scar tissue. Chaz Alvarez, bless his soul, had turned a fucking disaster into a wicked abstract design in black and grey, and Bucky’s habit of wearing one-armed shirts had come to an abrupt end. That surge in confidence had been the reason he’d jumped in with both feet and gotten a killer chest piece when they’d had a four-day weekend in New Orleans, and why he’d started on his right arm in Vegas. But his tattoos weren’t the fucking point and neither was his eyeliner, his combat boots, the lean muscle he’d been building over the past year, his eyebrow piercing, his fucking nipple piercings, or his penchant for letting guys roll weed on his abs, snort drugs off of his abs, or lick come off of his mother fucking abs! “How about you ask me a question about the show…”

_ “Ahh, _ so you do have integrity…”

Jesus Christ, he needed to get Nat in here, like, _ yesterday, _ because this whole thing was heading south, fast. Bucky knew that this chick was just doing her job...searching for something juicy to pull in the hits...but her digging was coinciding with Bucky’s after-show crash, where the drop in adrenaline made him bitchy, tired, and, most of all, _ horny… _

“Where are you from again?” he asked, trying to keep it together…trying to be the ‘face’ of the goddamn band…

_ “LA Weekly.” _

There’d been a huge feature story on Tom Morello’s solo project in _LA Weekly _ last month, and once again, Bucky was reminded of how far he’d come since he’d blown out his first bass amp in his parent’s garage.

Firing up the joint, Frank tossed the magazine at Clint’s face (because neither of them were _ any _ help with press), Damien ran out of the room, yelling into the walkie-talkie…then ran back in, then ran back out…and this woman kept staring at Bucky like he was supposed to spout out a soliloquy about _ integrity _when all of his silver necklaces were sticking to his bare chest and his nuts were chafing from all of the fucking sweat.

“Yeah, I have integrity,” he started, recapping the same old story for the hundredth time. “It’s _ widely known _ that when I first started submitting my songs to labels _at 16, _ that I turned down not one, not two, but _ five _ producers who wanted to buy my songs for other artists. And I’m not knocking songwriters, or bands who buy their songs…someday I might even get into that business, who knows?…but right now, this is _ my _ music…” He pointed at Clint and Frank, who were surrounded by an enormous cloud of smoke. “I’ve been with these guys since we met in Mr. Cooper’s band class in _ middle school. _ I wrote ‘Siren’ after Clint’s first girlfriend dumped him for a lacrosse player, and ‘Piledriver’ after Frank got arrested for shoplifting a six-pack of Monster from Target. So, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t question my fucking integrity. We’ve stuck together all these years because Bowling Alley Boyfriend is our shared existence. It’s _ our _music. The lifestyle, the songs, the name of the band…it’s literally who we are.”

The photographer kept clicking, aiming at Bucky, at Clint, at Frank, at Ronnie the drum tech taking a huge hit, and at a bunch of random roadies who’d snuck in to steal their fucking beer. But that’s what sells records, right? The image of underage drinking? The rebellion of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll? The fucking fantasy? God knows that’s why Bucky’d spent the cash he’d earned mowing lawns as a kid on Green Day’s _ Dookie _and his first Black Flag record. Stretching his arms over his head, he leaned back and flexed his muscles for the camera, putting on the face…_selling it… _

Just like John Lydon and Sid Vicious…Iggy Pop…Henry Rollins…Bowie…Axl fucking Rose…

Clicking her pen a bunch of times, Ms. _ LA Weekly _ tossed out an impressively dramatic pause before she shifted gears completely. “So, even though you just played a sold-out show at the Hollywood Palladium, which, in case you didn’t know, holds 3,700, you still feel that connection to your roots? I mean, looking at it objectively, you’ve gone from a garage band playing the local scene, to the ‘next big thing’ in less than a year, your self-titled album has been sitting comfortably in the Top 20 on the rock, alternative, _ and _ pop charts for the past month, and the amount of physical copies that you’ve sold is almost unheard of in the modern market. That _ has _ to change your perspective.”

It took everything Bucky had not to scream ‘No shit, lady’, but he didn’t want to deal with that headline either. He could see it now: ‘Bowling Alley Boyfriend singer warns “be careful what you wish for”, vows to return to his roots’. 

Fuck no. 

_ Finally, _ Clint cleared his throat and came in for the fucking assist. “Yeah, lots of shit has changed. Instead of trying to sleep through Cosmic Bowling and _ horrible _ karaoke on Friday nights, we have to sleep through our driver’s road rage at three o’clock in the morning, five nights a week. Eddie’s not a fan of semi trucks.”

“Or minivans,” Frank tossed out, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the middle of the room. “And my cymbals aren’t cracked any more, which is nice. When we played the Roxy, my ride and both of my high-hats were busted.” He ran a hand through his short black hair, took another hit, blew another smoke ring. “My kick drum pedal was held together with duct tape, and I was down to my last six drumsticks.”

“Yeah, and you broke _ five _ of them during the show…” Laughing, Clint snatched the joint out of Frank’s fingers. “You played the last two songs like the guy from Def Leppard. One-handed, like a boss.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but smile because _ this _was why he played music: the fucking camaraderie of shared experience…the authenticity of being down to your last drumstick and putting on a killer show anyway… 

“Now I don’t have to worry about that shit,” Frank said, unintentionally expressing Bucky’s worst fear. “When shit breaks, Ronnie here just dials up my sponsors and they hook me up...shout out to Pearl and Zlidjian, by the way. Anyway, playing the kit I have now, it’s…” Wiping a hand across his forehead, Frank flicked the sweat on the floor and didn’t finish the sentence. And Bucky knew why. Emotions were something that Frank usually expressed by beating on things _ really, really _ hard, not with words. “Anyway,” he continued, “a year ago, I was squeezing my entire drum set…plus these assholes’ crap…into a 2004 Dodge Neon and bumming gas money just to make it home. Now, I don’t even set up my own drums. It’s fucking crazy…”

Out of nowhere, Nat slapped her hand on the door and yelled, “Five minutes to get your shit together before I let these people in. Bucky, how about a shirt this time? Maybe some deodorant? And Clint, do something with that hair, it’s not really a mohawk anymore.” She was absolutely right; it was more like a mo-mullet. Then, turning to the reporter (whatever the fuck her name was), Nat said, “Last question,” with a dick-tingling amount of authority.

Record company women were always such _ ballbreakers. _It was so fucking hot. 

Speaking of which, he couldn’t wait to get through this meet and greet so he could slam a few shots at the dive bar by his shitty apartment, catch up with his buddy Joe (who tended bar on Fridays), and hook up with somebody…

_ Anybody… _

Had he mentioned that he was always horny after a show? He had? Well, he was gonna fucking mention it again! Bucky was always painfully horny after a gig, _ especially _ when they’d played like they had tonight…

But discretion was key in the modern marketplace.

Bucky rolled his eyes. 

The last time he was home, he was still on speaking terms with Jett (real name: Matthew. ‘Matthew’, FYI, doesn’t sound very ‘punk’), Rudie (real name: Landon. Which, yeah, Bucky didn’t blame him for changing that one), Daniel (real name: Daniel. He was a non-conformist, real deal, _ ultra-_punk), and on _ semi-good _ terms with Lita and Helena (real names: Christina and Ashley. Threesomes were a tricky, tricky, business)… Scratching at his stinky armpit, Bucky put Daniel at the top of his list. Not only was his name the real deal, but he fucked like the real deal too. Hard and fast…

“Okay, last question,” the reporter blurted out, interrupting Bucky’s hook-up planning. Rude! And, to put the cherry on top, the fuck with the camera started up again, pushing his little black button like Bucky hadn’t been sitting on the _ same _ couch, in the _ same _ fucking position, for the past 20 minutes.

Whatever. Raising his eyebrows, he took a huge swig of his beer and made a solid attempt to focus on this lady’s question instead of where he was gonna stick his half-hard dick when he finally got out of here…

“So, tonight was a homecoming of sorts for you,” she started, clicking her fucking pen. “According to your manager, you’ll be in Los Angeles for a month before you head back out on the road to hit the east coast…”

Bucky went right ahead and adjusted his dick in his skin-tight black jeans. “Was there a question in there?” he muttered. “Because I already know my schedule. Damien tapes it to the window in the van so we don’t fuck it up.” 

Was he being an asshole? Clearly. But at this point, he honestly didn’t care if the whole article was about how much of a prick he was. His mood was crashing, this shit was taking too fucking long, and he really just wanted to catch up with Joe and drink some shitty tequila.

Plus, being authentic with his emotions would add to his fucking mystique…or whatever… 

She was unfazed, which, in this business, didn’t surprise Bucky at all. God, the things she must’ve seen…

Giving him a curt smile, Ms. _ LA Weekly _ gave it another go. “So, after the success of tonight’s show...which, according to the buzz, might just have been the performance that pushes you to the next level…how do you think life in L.A. is going to change for you?”

Rearranging his necklaces on his chest, Bucky slouched down and spread his knees wide, tapping his heels on the tiled floor. “That was actually a good question,” he said, meaning it wholeheartedly. It wasn’t that he hated reporters, he just hated _ stupid _ reporters, and looking her up and down, he decided that this one might have some potential after all. Crossing a boot over his knee, he dropped the attitude (most of it, at least). “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Daphne Mitchell.”

He nodded. “Okay, Daphne Mitchell, I’m gonna need a second to think about that one.”

“Take all the time you need.”

She was right about the show. They’d played better tonight than they had on the entire tour (maybe ever), finding that magical pocket that only happens when you have the right people, in the right place, at the right moment in time. Guns N’ Roses at the Roxy in ’87. David Bowie giving Mick Ronson an electric blow-job onstage in ’71. Hendrix transfixing the crowd at Woodstock. Nirvana showcasing their songwriting on MTV Unplugged in ’93. Bucky might have his hesitations about fame, but he never second-guessed being on stage with these guys. _ Never. _

Tonight, the sound guy had found the sweet spot for Bucky’s vocals (the perfect amount of reverb with just enough bass to add the crunch he liked), and he hadn’t busted a string on his bass and almost taken out his eye (Denver, man, what a shit show). Clint had gone all out with the charisma, pushing the beat as he’d run all over the fucking stage like a maniac. And Frank had saved the drugs and booze for _ after _ the fucking show for once, making it easier to nail their connection…to sync up like a fuckin’ _ heartbeat. _

Relaxing her arms, Daphne stopped clicking her pen and put away her little notebook like she sensed that Bucky was gonna give her a legitimate answer. The old-school tools were replaced by a recorder and a small microphone, which she discretely aimed in his direction.

“Okay, first of all,” Bucky said, leaning forward and draping his elbows over his knees, “I want to make it perfectly clear that the only thing the three of us did tonight was walk out onto that stage and play some well-written songs _ really, really _ well. That’s it. We didn’t save any whales when we powered up our amps or fix the border-crisis when we got the crowd riled up. I’m not a mouthpiece for my generation, or even someone to look up to. I play bass. I write songs. And I write them for _ myself _ more than anyone else. I’m a selfish artist, and, if we’re being honest, I’m a pretty selfish guy. I’ve done absolutely nothing to merit the hundreds of pictures your photographer has taken of me, except to bring back an aesthetic that was anti-authority in _ 1974 _ and do a shitload of push-ups while we were on tour. And yet, here we are…”

Bucky looked her right in the eye, and Daphne, being good at what she did, held the microphone closer to his lips. 

“So, how’s my life in L.A. gonna change when I walk out that door?” He chucked. “Well, since _ punk rock _ and _ success _ are usually mutually exclusive, I’m probably gonna spend a lot of time listening to my scene friends bitch at me for selling out.”

_ “Have _ you sold out?”

“That’s a different question, Daphne.” Pressing his beer against the side of his face, he took a breath. It was getting fucking hot in here. Too many people doing whatever the fuck all these people did. “Let’s see,” he said, soldiering through. “What else is gonna change? _ Um…I _imagine that it’s gonna be a hell of a lot easier to score good drugs, so I’m probably gonna spend a lot of time reminding myself that success can be fatal. Cobain, Layne Staley, Scott Weiland, Chester, Chris Cornell…even Demi Lovato for Christ’s sake! So, it’s probably gonna be harder for me to stay alive?” 

Squatting down, Daphne lowered her voice, and suddenly the whole thing felt more intimate. “Okay,” she said, nodding a little, “so that’s what you’re trying to _ avoid. _ Perception. Temptation. What about something more personal? What _ specifically _ is going to be different for Bucky Barnes when he wakes up tomorrow morning in Los Angeles, California?”

Bucky snorted. He couldn’t help it. “How about when I wake up to the sound of cockroaches skittering around in my kitchen, I can actually afford to call a goddamn exterminator.”

“Good. That’s more real. What else?”

“I haven’t seen my mom and sister in a while. Maybe I won’t have to wait until my dad goes to work to visit them…” Cracking up, he started picking at his purple nail polish. “Actually, no. Scratch that. It doesn’t matter how successful I am…that’s _ never _gonna change.” 

“So your father…”

Snapping his fingers, he cut off that line of questioning before it even got started. _ “Oh, _ I’ve got one! When I take my sister to Disneyland for her birthday next week, I’ll probably have to take a security guard or two, or, now that I’m ‘moving up to the next level’, as you so kindly put it, will I get a VIP pass and top-secret access to all the rides?”

For the first time, she signaled her photographer to stop taking pictures, and it felt like a fucking reprieve.

“Two minutes,” Nat yelled from somewhere. “Media needs to head to the big room to the right. If you’re not there when we start, you don’t get in. No exceptions.”

A line of people instantly filed out the door, passing between Bucky Barnes and Daphne Mitchell, including Clint, Frank, the wasted drum tech, the wasted guitar tech, the bar-back who’d been restocking their cooler, Damien, who was still on the fucking phone…and even the photographer with his fancy fucking camera. Everyone was moving to the ‘big room’ for ‘the next big thing’, except the reporter and the rock star, who were finally going nose to fucking nose…

“It’s funny,” she said, setting her recorder on the armrest next to him, “I’ve asked hundreds of musicians that very same question, and nobody has ever answered it like you. Instead of telling me how things were going to change, you told me what _ wasn’t _ going to change and what you wanted to keep the same. I mean, taking you sister to Disneyland? _ That’s _ what’s on your mind tonight?”

“Yeah, Mickey Mouse and getting laid…”

She cleared her throat, and Bucky, for whatever reason, decided to tell the truth…

“I don’t know. I guess I’m trying not to lose touch with where I come from from…because I don’t want to lose touch with _ this _ music…”

“Are you afraid that you’ll lose your inspiration, your _ muse, _ if things change too much?”

Bucky shrugged. “I think that’s a fear that all artists have. Yeah.”

What he didn’t say was that he was afraid that he’d already lost it. He hadn’t written anything good in over a month…and it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Standing up, he put an official end to the interview by giving himself one last wipe down with the towel (happy trail, chest, pits, neck, hair, face…probably the wrong order) before reaching out to shake Daphne’s hand. “Thanks,” he whispered, remembering his fucking manners. Then he walked out the door…

He had people to meet. Posters to sign. Babies to kiss. Inspiration to find…

“It’s this way,” Nat said, coming out of nowhere as soon as he stepped out into the hall, spinning him around by his hips and herding him towards a different door. “You’re all set up. Same drill as Vegas, okay? Stay on _ your _ side of the table. One picture and one autograph per person. Get through the line quickly, but don’t make them feel rushed. _ This _ is how you make real fans.”

“You’ve told me a hundred times…”

“Yeah, and I’m going to _keep _ telling you because you can be a real dick.”

Record label women. God, Bucky loved them. And, despite all of his bitching, he loved the fans too.

He did.

_ They _ were the reason he was being handed a Sharpie and a bottle of water instead of begging a stagehand for a set-list out front. _ They _ were the reason the 12-passenger van was being upgraded to a bus for the next leg of the tour. _ They _ were the reason Bucky tried to keep his music as authentic as possible, because _ connection _ was the most important thing. And, to really break things down, _ they _ were the reason that the three of them weren’t living in the back room of Frank’s uncle’s bowling alley anymore…

Rolling his shoulders, shaking out his hands, adjusting his necklaces, his leather cuffs, his rings, his gauges (Jesus, he wore a lot of shit), Bucky walked into the room with his head held high. Cocky. Snide. A little bit rude. That was the fucking image, and, despite his ever-shifting mood about the ‘business’, it was a whole lot easier to sell punk-rock sex appeal than it was to hustle mixtapes on the fucking corner of Hollywood and Vine.

Was Bucky a sell-out? 

To be honest, he wasn’t really sure anymore.

Settling into his spot at the end of the table, he eyed the line of media people in the back of the room. He instantly hated all of them. Well, except for Daphne. They’d shared a moment. Maybe he could break his writer’s block with a catchy little jam about her notepad and her annoying ballpoint pen?

Clint and Frank were already in place, and Bucky couldn’t help but snicker. They had assigned seats for these things. Clint was always first because he was the ‘approachable’ one (at least he had been before Denver). He was funny and sexy at the same time, like Flea or Dave Grohl. And Frank was always in the middle because he came across like post-Black Flag Henry Rollins: so big and so smart that everyone was afraid of him _ and _ wanted to fuck him at the same time. It was an interesting combo. Pulling out the metal chair at the very end, Bucky (aka The Grand Finale) sat his ass down _ without _a fucking shirt.

“I’m so ready for a fucking taco,” Clint muttered, tapping his Sharpie on the table. “You guys wanna go down to El Compadre after this?”

Tacos or shots with Joe? That was a tricky choice, and one that Bucky didn’t get to make because he heard the stage door open, the loud chatter, the excited buzz, and the sound of Nat’s voice keeping the fans reined in like zoo animals. They were coming, ready or not…

“Your hair is so cool now! I mean, I loved it when it was long and sexy, but this new look? It’s _ beyond.” _

“Very spiky.”

“Very blond.”

_ “Very _ Billy Idol.”

Bucky couldn’t write his signature fast enough. 

Sign, smile, pose for the photo_. _Repeat.

“I learned the whole album in a week, man, backwards and forwards. The drum parts. The bass parts. The guitar parts. Rhythm _ and _ lead. I even bought a cowbell, so I could do the cowbell part in your song ’Siren’. You know what I’m talking about, right? The _ ding, ding…ding, ding, ding…” _

Sign, sneer, pose, think about tequila. Repeat. 

“I’m glad you’re bringing back this kind of sound. You’re retro without being _ completely _ derivative, which is rare in the day and age of Greta Van Fleet. Do you feel me, buddy?”

Bucky _ loved _ Greta Van Fleet. They ripped off Zeppelin with flair! Just like Bucky loved Kingdom Come, who’d ripped off Zeppelin with hairmetal flair in the fucking 80s, and Wolfmother, who’d done it with indie flair less than ten years ago. Fucking get over it! _ All _ music was derivative!

Sign, sneer, flip off camera_. _ Repeat.

In 25 minutes, Bucky’d been directly propositioned eight times, covertly handed at least 15 phone numbers, and, when he’d broken the rules and taken a picture with a group of women who’d looked old enough to be his mom, he’d had his ass grabbed by not one, not two, but _ three _ unruly cougars. Bucky was over it. He just wanted a fucking taco, a _row _ of tequila shots, and to crawl into his _ own _ bed and jerk off in front of the cockroaches_…alone. _

Late-night hookup? At this point, it just seemed like too much work…

“Hi.”

Bucky blinked because ‘hi’ wasn’t a typical greeting in a meet and greet line. And when he looked up, he blinked again, because_ what the fuck? _

That’s when he noticed that the entire room had been cleared. No more fans rambling about cowbells. No more reporters. No more photographers. Even Clint and Frank had already capped their Sharpies and were heading towards the _ slightly _ less beat-up couch in the far corner (FYI, nicer venues did _not _mean it was nicer backstage). And Nat? Well, she was standing in front of the closed door with a weird look on her face. Sheepish? Curious? Amused? He couldn’t fucking tell…

Which left Bucky alone at the table with…

A beefier version of Justin Bieber in a baseball hat and dark sunglasses? No shit, this dude had the collar of this preppy-ass jacket pulled up around his jawline like he was shooting the cover for a new One Direction album! And because Bucky was really fucking tired, and had absolutely no idea what the fuck was happening, he replied, “Hi?”

“Sorry about all this…”

“About all what?” 

The guy gestured at Nat, like that would explain everything. It didn’t. 

But then he took off his sunglasses and set them on the table, which _ sure as fuck _ made Bucky stand up!

And then he took off his hat and set _ that _ on the table, which made Clint jump off the couch like he’d been fucking electrocuted.

And when the guy folded down the collar of his stupid Zayne jacket, even Frank stood up and gasped because _ it may has well have been Justin fucking Bieber! _

“You’re Steve fucking Rogers…” 

Tall. Built. Tan. Dark blond hair, cut short, neatly trimmed (definitely _ not _by a fucking box cutter). Jawline for days. Stellar eyebrows. Baby blue eyes that were even more obnoxious in person…

Scoffing, Clint waved him off like a fly and shouted, “No, he’s not,” even though his expression very clearly said that it sure as fuck was!

There was no mistaking Steve fucking Rogers! His face was _ everywhere: _the sides of busses, the cover of _ Rolling Stone _ magazine, billboards, and on the front of every tween girl’s t-shirt from New York to L.A. to fucking Orlando, Florida. For Christ’s sake, Bucky’s _ sister _ had been _ obsessed _ with this fucker’s band for the past three years, which was an absolute _ eternity _ for a 14-year-old! 

“Hey, international sex symbol,” Frank muttered, managing a median 23% funny and 77% asshole. “You lost?”

And that’s when shit got really weird.

First off, let’s not forget that Bucky was half-naked (and in need of some serious deodorant) in front of the proud owner of Vevo’s most popular video of 2019. Well, one of _ five _ proud owners, because you can’t be in a _ fucking boy band _by yourself!

“No, I’m not lost,” he said, looking at Bucky and Bucky only. “I asked my manager to make this meeting happen.”

“Meeting?” Bucky was so confused. And freaked out. Confused _ and _ freaked out. “We’re having a meeting?”

“Did you bring donuts?” Clint asked, running his hands over his mo-mullet like a _ full-fledged _ asshole. “Or tacos?”

Steve fucking Rogers rolled his eyes, which, _ holy fuck! _ That was a ballsy move. Superstar or not, you didn’t roll your eyes at Clint Barton. Guitar players, especially ones craving tacos, liked to get scrappy (also genetic). 

“Actually,” Steve fucking Rogers said, setting his jaw in the most distracting way. “I wanted to talk to _ you _ for a minute. _ Alone, _if possible.”

Frank scoffed. “Are you offering Bucky a solo deal, or do you just need him to add some authenticity to your next pre-packaged hit? ‘Cause we don’t collab with people who don’t write their own music.” 

By the way, Frank was a music snob. A purist, through and through. He bought all his music on vinyl and absolutely _ hated _ Greta Van Fleet.

Three seconds later, Frank and Clint were whisked away (kicked out by Nat), and Bucky found himself face to face with a real-life pop star. Like, this fucker had gotten slimed on the Nickelodeon Kid’s Choice Awards last year…which Bucky only knew because his sister liked neon-green slime and absolutely _ loved _ Lot 5. She had the posters and t-shirts to prove it! Bucky tugged on his pants because they were suddenly getting _ a whole hell of a lot _ tighter. 

Also, while he was on the subject, Lot 5 was a _ stupid _ band name. Did it mean ‘Parking Lot 5’, like his band needed to remember where they’d parked their tour bus at the STAPLES Center? Or were all five well-built ‘boys’ getting sold at auction to the highest bidder? At least Bowling Alley Boyfriend had a story behind it...some real life suffering…

When the door clicked shut again, it was like Surreal had fucked Surreal and birthed the most surreal situation in the long, seedy history of Los Angeles. 

On one side of the table, you had a semi-famous bleach-blond dude with horrible BO and a sweaty erection, and on the other side, you had a _ legitimately-_famous blond dude who looked like he’d just finished eating five entire chickens and done a thousand push-ups (seriously, dude was built like a Mack Truck) and seemed like he’d smell like sandalwood if you got close enough...

“You’re too old to be in a boy band,” Bucky snapped, because it pissed him off that he was drooling. “What are you, like, 24?”

“19,” he snapped right back (which, of course, made Bucky’s dick jump). “What are _ you? _ Like, 15?”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m twenty.”

Silence.

For a good 30 seconds.

Bucky couldn’t take it. 

“Listen, man, I know I’m supposed to be starstruck and shit, but I’m coming off four shows in a row and this is the first night in over six months that I get to sleep in my own bed. So if you could just spit it out…”

“Oh, sorry. No problem.” Steve fucking Rogers reached around to grab something out of the back pocket and switched up his tone, sounding distinctly_ bubbly _ when he said, “My girlfriend just _ really _loves your band, thinks you’re hot shit, and I was just hoping that you could sign this for her…”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky shouted, because fucking really!?

“Yes, I’m fucking kidding.” The legitimate pop star tossed a condom onto the table, right next to Bucky’s Sharpie. “And if you’re up to spending one more night away from your own bed, I have a pretty nice one about 15 minutes from here.”

Holy shit.

Bucky tried to pick his jaw up off the floor…because_ holy fucking shit. _

Sometimes in life, weird shit happens. You’re born with the ability to write pop-punk songs in your sleep…your sister finds a three-legged cat in a mailbox and names her _ Stamp…_your dad kicks you out of the house because you’re bisexual…you score your first record deal when you’re living in a bowling alley...

And an international superstar who’d been slimed on the mother fucking Kid’s Choice Awards sets up a ‘meeting’ so he can ask you to fuck.

And really? What was Bucky gonna do? Turn him down? 

Inspiration. Rebellion. Late-night hook-ups with the world’s most familiar stranger? Where better to search for authenticity than in one of the most pre-packaged, image-conscious assholes in the entire world?

If anything, Bucky was gonna get a _ killer _ song out of this…

Licking his lips, nice and _ slow, _he popped the cap on his Sharpie and signed his name right across the foil. “You should know that I really hate your music,” Bucky whispered, sliding the condom back across the table with just his index finger…

Mirroring him, Steve Rogers barely let the tips of their fingers touch on top of the Magnum XL (fuck, yeah) before he murmured, “And you should know that I really love yours…”

**Author's Note:**

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